


Fall Back Together

by enoughtotemptme



Series: Fall Back Together Universe [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellamy has a huge pottymouth, F/M, Minor Octavia Blake/Lincoln, POV Bellamy, Roommates, Sibling's Best Friend, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/pseuds/enoughtotemptme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts off as mere attraction to Clarke ends up turning into something much more.</p><p>Or, the story of what happens when Bellamy Blake agrees to let his little sister’s college roommate come home with her for spring break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Octavia calls him two days before spring break, begging him to let her bring her college roommate home with her for the vacation, he’s coming off a double shift at the museum where he works security during the week. He vaguely registers the question, slurs a _sure, O, whatever_ , and then passes out on top of his covers.

He’s a little more lucid the next day when Octavia texts him that they’re skipping their last class of the day and driving home that night.

Bellamy stares in confusion at the illuminated screen of his phone and then groans when he (mostly) remembers the previous night’s phone call. He sends her a text back.

 

Bellamy: why is your roommate coming home w/ you for break again?

Octavia: bc it’ll be fun! :)))

Bellamy: how is hanging out w/ your older brother supposed to be fun for her?

Octavia: u said she could come and i already invited her

Octavia: NO TAKE-BACKS BELL

Bellamy: she can come, I just don’t get why she’s not going to her own house

Octavia: she doesn’t go home for breaks

Bellamy: okay...

Bellamy: why?

Octavia: she doesn’t like to talk about it

Octavia: but i didn’t want her sitting alone in the apartment again

Octavia: SO SHE’S COMING HOME WITH ME

Octavia: AND U BETTER BE NICE

Bellamy: jeez O

Bellamy: fine, I’ll be nice

Bellamy: hey, when am I not nice?

Bellamy: ????

Octavia: we’re about to leave!! see u tonight big bro

Octavia: PS pls buy almond milk, she’s lactose intolerant

 

Bellamy stares at the texts, sighs, and types back a ‘drive safe.’

* * *

Bellamy runs to the grocery store and buys Peanut Butter Captain Crunch (Octavia’s favorite), almond milk, and a bunch of other staples so that it will look like he actually has food when she’s not home. He eats, sure, but he doesn’t cook a lot when Octavia’s away at school.

He’s home putting away the groceries when he hears a couple female voices echoing in the stairway outside his apartment, so he scrambles to shove the rest of the food into the cupboard before Octavia bursts in.

“Bell!” he hears as he turns toward the door, and then he’s got an armful of ecstatic Octavia.

“Hey, O,” he says, squeezing her around the middle and lifting her off the ground until she squeals and demands to be set down. He hears Octavia’s roommate laughing quietly, but ignores her for now. When he finally puts his sister down and she steps back, he smiles at her. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Oh, Bellamy, this is my roommate!” She turns to gesture at the girl, and Bellamy’s mouth is already open to remind Octavia that he’s met Roma before when he sees her.

This girl is definitely not Roma.

“You’re not Roma,” he says dumbly.

She’s all golden hair and creamy skin and huge blue eyes and she’s tiny _,_ only as tall as his chin, if that. She’s also the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire damn life.

And right now she’s looking flustered where a moment before she was grinning at the sight of the siblings, and Octavia’s hitting him in the shoulder.

“Bellamy!” she hisses. “I told you, Roma dropped out last semester and moved back home. Clarke took over Roma’s part of the lease when she transferred and needed a place to live.”

Bellamy now vaguely remembers Octavia telling him something to that effect. In his defense, whenever he texts with O about what she’s up to, she always says something like “movie night with the roomie” or just refers to Clarke within an ambiguous “we.”

“Right,” he says. “Well. Nice to meet you, Clarke.”

She gives him a nervous smile. “Nice to meet you, too, Bellamy. Thanks for letting me come.”

He nods, and they all stand in silence for a moment before Octavia clears her throat.

“Ooh-kay,” she drawls. “Clarke, let me show you my room. Bell, grab our bags, won’t you?”

Bellamy grumbles about not being Octavia’s packhorse but slings the duffle bags over his shoulders anyway and trails after them to his sister’s room.

The apartment is small and a little crappy, two little bedrooms and a single bathroom. But they’ve lived there since their mother died and it was all Bellamy could afford for them when he was a barely legal teenager working the handful of odd jobs he could get.

He could have afforded something nicer once he got his jobs at the museum and the bar on weekends, but by then Octavia was about to start college and he wanted her to be able to graduate without any debt from student loans. He’d worked on his own degree in history through online courses to save money for the same reason. So he’s stayed here, and it’s as nice a home for them as he can make it.

Octavia spots the tidily made bed with fresh sheets when she pushes open her door and sends a fond look back at Bellamy, who grimaces at her and dumps the girls’ bags by the closet.

“You two get settled in. I have a shift at Grounders tonight,” he says apologetically, “but there’s food in the kitchen.”

“Captain Crunch?” Octavia says hopefully.

“Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And almond milk,” he adds, looking at Clarke.

He notices Clarke pink up a little and smile at him, but he definitely does _not_ think it’s adorable and a little hot. Not at all.

“Don’t burn the apartment down,” he calls as he retreats to his own room to get ready for work.

“You took away all my matches last time!” Octavia snarks back, and he laughs.  It’s good to have his sister home. (And even if her roommate is a little too easy on the eyes, he’s a grown man. He can control himself.)

* * *

Bellamy’s made it halfway through the week of spring break and he’s still in control of himself, but just barely. He hates himself for it, but he’s picked up a few of the shifts at the museum he originally planned to take off while Octavia was home.

It’s just...Clarke.

He wants to hang out with his little sister, but Clarke is always there, and it’s not that he doesn’t like her––it’s that he likes her a little too much. He’s found out that she’s funny, and snarky, and that her last name is Griffin. She’s a senior double majoring in art and education, and thankfully the high school where she student teaches has the same spring break as the college, or else she would have been stuck back at school. She wants to move out of the city when she’s done with college, and she likes young adult dystopian novels and Jane Austen. Her favorite artists are Vincent Van Gogh and Alphonse Mucha and Botticelli and Degas; her favorite sculpture is the “Winged Victory of Samothrace” and she’s seen it in person at the Louvre.

Bellamy’s noticed she bites the inside of her cheek when he asks her a question about something she doesn’t want to answer, usually about her family or why she transferred schools so close to graduating. He usually pesters her for an answer anyway, which makes her snap at him, but at least then he’s distracted from his thoughts of her cheeks and her teeth and her _mouth––_

So to try and curtail his fascination with his little sister’s college roommate before he does something stupid, Bellamy picks up extra shifts at work, goes to bed early when he is home, and every morning he doesn’t have work, drags himself out of the apartment at the asscrack of dawn for a terrible, miserable run in hopes of exhausting his libido before he runs into Clarke.

(It hasn’t really worked; his gut still clenches at the sight of her every morning, but Bellamy likes to convince himself it’s helping him act like a normal human being at least a _little._ At the very least he’s out of the house when she first gets up, all rumpled and sleepy and warm with that _bed head––_ )

He stumbles out the door of his apartment that morning, yawning and scrubbing a hand over his face before reluctantly opening his eyes. He’s not expecting to see the most perfect ass he’s ever seen in his _life––_ a woman’s standing on the landing and stretching, and he swallows hard when he sees the ease with which she’s bending over and  holding her palms flat to the ground, her knees unbent.

He must make _some_ kind of noise because the woman lets out a little squeak and bolts upright.

“Bellamy!” she says with a flustered smile when she sees him.

It’s Clarke.

Shit, shit, _shit._

Really, he’s been so _good_ up till now, not noticing the way her lips were stained red with the fruit he served the three of them with breakfast the first morning; not noticing the little shimmy she did with her hips when she and O were having a dance party in the middle of the living room to the most _ridiculous_ music he’d _ever_ heard; not noticing the way one of his old, thin towels stuck to her body when she forgot her clean clothes and had to slip from the bathroom to Octavia’s room after a shower yesterday.

Well, maybe he hasn’t been doing so well, but he’s _tried._ That counts, doesn’t it? Kind of.

(Maybe not.)

He clears his throat and tries to push away the warm feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach. “Hey, Clarke. Uh, what are you doing?”

“Oh,” says Clarke, “you know. I’ve been kind of a sloth on break, so I just wanted to go for a run before breakfast.” She gestures at herself, and logically Bellamy knows it’s to point out her workout gear, but all he can take in is the tight black spandex making her legs look long and lean, the ponytail displaying the graceful neck usually hidden under her wavy hair, the cheerful pink of her sleeveless top making her skin look creamy and fresh and _lickable––_

Bellamy realizes Clarke’s said something that he missed while fucking _fantasizing_ about her––

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I kind of missed that.”

Clarke gives him a funny look but repeats herself. “I said, are you going out too?” She indicates his track pants and sneakers.

“No!” he blurts out and she raises an eyebrow. “No––I mean, yes.” He sighs. “Yes.”

“Okay…” Clarke replies, and she starts stretching her arms over her head and Bellamy’s _not_ looking at the skin revealed as her shirt rides up. He’s _not._ “We should run together,” she says with a little smile, and he can’t do anything but agree without seeming like the biggest asshole on the planet.

“Sure,” he says helplessly. With a satisfied little sigh Clarke finishes stretching and rolls her shoulders.

“Okay, let’s go,” she says, and she’s way too cheery for it not even being light outside, and part of him wishes he had never gotten up (and the other, bigger part of him thanks god he did because he’s behind her as she bounces down the building stairs to the exit).

When they get outside Clarke looks at him expectantly.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re the one who runs every morning,” Clarke says. “Where do you go?”

“I don’t–” he stops abruptly. “I, uh, go this way.” He points to the left.

“Great,” Clarke replies, and without waiting takes off. With a groan, Bellamy runs after her.

“What was that?” she calls back to him.

“Nothing,” he says as he catches up.

Clarke hums in response and picks up her pace a little.

It’s cool outside but at the pace Clarke sets they quickly work up a sweat. They don’t speak––the only sound is their breathing. Bellamy’s trying his best to stare straight ahead as they travel down the city blocks, but instead he’s fixating on the rhythm of her breaths and then he fucks up and glances at her when she gulps in a particularly deep breath and there’s a flush from her cheeks to her chest and a bead of sweat is trickling from her jaw down her throat and _oh my god._

Bellamy has no idea how he makes it back to his apartment without falling on flat on his goddamned face but he’s hot and bothered and Clarke ahead of him on the stairs doesn’t help at _all_ and he’s _desperate_ for an ice cold shower.

But.

He sighs as he locks the door and makes sure to stare at the wall just past Clarke’s head while she holds her ankle in a cool-down stretch. “Shower’s all yours, Clarke.”

“Oh,” she says, and the strange tone in her voice tricks him into looking at her. She’s adjusting the strap of her top and she’s sweaty and glistening and _shit._

“Yeah.” He hears the strangled quality of his own voice and tries to hide it with a smile. “O sleeps half the day away. There’s time for both of us to shower before she gets up.”

Clarke toes off her shoes and her arms are crossed now, looking like she’s holding herself in place. She bites her lip, and _oh god, please don’t do that_ , Bellamy thinks fiercely.

“Bellamy, I––” She takes a deep breath and stands as straight and tall as she can on bare feet and for a brief moment Bellamy’s distracted from the terrible arousal he’s fighting by how adorable she looks because she’s still tiny as hell.

“Bellamy, I know I’m probably embarrassing myself and I’m probably never going to want to look you in the face again after this,” Clarke starts in a rush. “And _god_ I should shut my mouth right now because you’re Octavia’s _brother_. But…”

“But?” Bellamy says, mouth dry, mind racing.

Clarke seems to steel herself. “But I could take the first shower, or...you could shower with me.”

For a moment, all Bellamy can do is look at her, then he glances at O’s door.

Like she said, he’s Octavia’s brother. And she’s Octavia’s roommate. And if he does this––if _they_ do this––things could blow up in their faces.

“Fuck it,” he groans and grabs for her. The second his mouth touches hers Clarke’s hopping up and hitching her legs around his waist, and he stumbles into the bathroom with barely enough presence of mind to close the door and lock it. He sets her down for a minute and spins the shower handle frantically until the pipes are creaking and water is blasting from the old showerhead, noisy as hell, covering any noise they might make.

When he turns back to her she’s already shimmied those stretchy black pants down her legs and she kicks the roll of fabric away from her as he crowds her against the tiny counter. He ducks his mouth to her neck and tastes the salt on her skin, and when he leans further down and scrapes his teeth against her collarbone, the broken sigh that slips out is electrifying to him.  

“ _Bellamy_ ,” she urges, and she helps him pull off his tee before he boosts her up next to the sink. Her nails scratch lightly over his back and he hisses before capturing her mouth with his again. Her mouth is sweet and still a little minty and he doesn’t know if he’s ever tasted anything as good as Clarke’s mouth.

He feels her whole body shudder as he palms her breast through that stupid, cute little exercise top and her nipples pebble through the fabric. She pulls her mouth from his and throws her head back against the fogging mirror, panting. He moves to pull her top off but she mumbles something about it being a bitch to get off and pulls his hand lower until he’s cupping her mons. He can feel her heat and he sends her a smile that feels more feral than anything else, pressing two firm fingers against her clit through the fabric of her panties.

“Your wish is my command, princess,” he says as she moans. He pulls her to the edge of the counter and strips her panties off while she lifts her hips to help and then he’s kneeling on the linoleum and holding her legs open wide, thumbs tracing the creases of her thighs because waiting any longer is the last fucking thing he wants to do.

She’s hot and wet and the first firm stroke of his tongue from her entrance to her clit has Clarke squealing and stuffing a fist in her mouth to muffle the sound, the other hand diving into Bellamy’s hair. And Bellamy realizes he was wrong. Clarke’s mouth is incredible, but _this_ is the best thing he’s ever tasted, musky and sweet and salty with her sweat.

He traces his tongue along her slit and whenever he hits a spot that makes Clarke’s fingers clench in his hair he lingers until she whimpers around her fingers. Eventually her thighs are trembling and even his tight grip on her thighs can’t keep her from thrusting her hips up to meet his mouth. So he curls first one, then two fingers into her heat and crooks upward as he sucks her clit, and she’s nearly sobbing as she comes, her pussy fluttering around his fingers and her thighs clamping around his head.

Bellamy’s hot and sweating in the steamy bathroom, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his _life_ as he watches Clarke come down from her orgasm, all pink and glistening and shivering. He can feel the dampness on his mouth and his chin and he licks his lips, still tasting her.

Finally she looks at him with hooded eyes. “Come here,” she demands, and when he stands she grabs his shoulders and pulls him into the cradle of her thighs. He groans into her mouth when his cock rubs against her slick skin; even through his pants he can feel the heat of her. Clarke’s hands slip into his hair––he thinks dimly that she seems to really like doing that––and her mouth trails away to suck and nibble at his pulse point. His skin is damp with sweat and steam, and the sensations Clarke is creating make him worry he’s going to come in his pants like a fucking teenager, and he finds himself blurting out, “My water bill is going to _suck_ this month.”

Clarke pauses, lifts her head to look at his face, glances at the still-running shower that they haven’t made it to yet. Then she’s giggling helplessly, pressing her forehead against his shoulder while he chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

He wonders if he’s allowed to do that, if that’s something he’s allowed to do to the girl he’s brought to the hottest orgasm he’s ever seen, if that’s something he’s allowed to do to his–– _shit_ ––to his little sister’s roommate.

But he doesn’t want to think about that, so he trails his fingers down Clarke’s stomach while she finally struggles her way out of that tight exercise top (she was right about it being a bitch; she smacks him when she sees him grinning at how hard she has to work to get it off).

And then he leans into her, cupping her bare breast in his palm (they’re the most perfect breasts he’s ever seen, he thinks) and she’s trying to shove his pants down his hips, _finally_ , and then Octavia’s pounding on the fucking bathroom door.

They both freeze and stare at each other.

“Clarke!” Octavia yells sleepily. “I’ve got to take a shower before we meet Lincoln for brunch, remember?”

Who the hell is Lincoln? Bellamy wonders briefly, but then Octavia speaks again.

“I want to head out before Bellamy gets back from his run, so could you hurry it up, please?”

“Um,” Clarke squeaks, then clears her throat and tries again. “Yeah, I’ll just be a couple more minutes, okay?”

He hears Octavia grumble something about Captain Crunch.

Bellamy sighs as he pushes himself away from Clarke. She hops down from the counter but he has to steady her when she staggers a bit.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers once she’s got her legs under control. She grabs his shirt from the bathroom floor and hands it to him. “I know you didn’t…” she trails off.

Bellamy’s lips quirk and he makes a show of looking her naked body up and down.

“S’alright, princess. It was worth it.” She flushes but doesn’t move to cover herself; instead she listens carefully at the door.

“Octavia must be eating her pre-brunch snack,” Clarke says. “You could make it to your room.” Bellamy grimaces at the idea of hiding out in his room, still sweaty and unsatisfied, but he nods and grabs the door handle.

“Wait!” Clarke blurts out, and when he turns back to her she stands on her tiptoes and kisses him. This kiss is different than their others, a simple press of lips, sweet and slow and gentle, and something about it rocks Bellamy to the core.

Clarke pulls back and gives him a shy smile. “You should hurry,” she says. So before he lets himself say _to hell with it_ because he really just wants to toss her in the shower and fuck her against the tile wall, he nods and slips out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole six part fic grew out of the idea of Bellamy liking Clarke in her workout gear. Go figure. Comments and kudos are always much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy's temper gets the better of him.

Bellamy’s forced to hide out in his room for the next hour while Octavia and Clarke do all the girly getting-ready things that always seem to take forever and a day. He’s still hard, but he absolutely does not want to have to come into a fucking t-shirt or something, so he tries to distract himself with the reading for his European Intellectual History class.

(It only kind of works.)

Finally he hears the slam and click of the girls heading out for brunch or whatever the fuck they’re doing.

(Seriously, who the fuck is Lincoln and why the fuck is Octavia waking up earlier than noon to meet him?)

Bellamy is sticky and smelly now that the sweat from his run and, er, other _activities_ with Clarke has dried so he drags himself to the bathroom. He had thought he’d calmed down enough while he waited, but the second he enters the bathroom and sees the pile of Clarke’s workout clothes left forgotten in the corner, an instant wave of heat hits him the gut and he groans.

He turns on the shower and there’s a little hot water left, thank god; he may not be interested in jacking off into his laundry, but he’s a man and the shower’s fair game. He strips off the rest of his clothes and lets the lukewarm water beat down on his back while he pulls at his cock. He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed when it only takes a few strokes and the memory of Clarke as she falls apart because of him to make Bellamy come against the shower wall. Shuddering and panting, Bellamy lets himself revel in the relief for only a moment before turning the dial all the way to cold.  

He curses his way through the rest of the excruciating shower and is done in record time.

Bellamy doesn’t really know what to do with himself once he’s dressed; he hadn’t been able to swing a shift at the museum for the next couple of days when he had been trying to actively avoid Clarke, and he only works weekends at the bar, so he actually has free time for once. Except now Clarke and Octavia are both gone and he’s at loose ends.

“You’re pathetic,” he tells himself when he ends up wandering around the apartment gathering up all the dirty laundry he can find. Octavia always cons him into doing her laundry for her when she’s home anyway (“My clothes are always nicer when you do the wash, Bell! I never separate the colors right.”), so he grabs her hamper, and then he tells himself it’s just polite to add Clarke’s dirty clothes from the bathroom.

Seriously, he’s not some kind of creep. He’s not going to fucking steal her panties or something, alright? Those exercise clothes just did him a good turn, okay, and he might as well make sure they’re taken care of.

He dumps the first load into the washer hidden in the little closet by the bathroom (and yeah, he separates the darks from the lights first, whatever) and then goes through the rest of the clothes, checking pockets for change or tissues. He pulls out a gum wrapper, a tube of lipstick, one of those free iTunes song things from Starbucks. He goes and puts the lipstick on Octavia’s dresser, and tosses the garbage in the bin, and almost starts to walk away when he notices some writing on the back of the iTunes card.

Curiously, Bellamy pulls it back out of the trash and flips it over.

To his surprise, it’s not just writing; there’s a little doodle that’s recognizably Octavia––it’s really good, actually––and underneath it there’s a phone number and the letter L.

He’d like to convince himself that Clarke’s the one behind the doodle, but he’s seen enough of her sketches (okay, so she left her sketchbook on the couch one day and he flipped through it without her knowing, _sue him_ ) to know it’s not quite her style. And besides, the L kinds of give it away. Bellamy’s not an idiot; he can connect the dots between this worn-out little card and Octavia’s meet-up this morning.

Bellamy stares at the little card. Who the hell is this Lincoln guy who apparently draws his sister and meets her for fucking brunch in his spare time?

* * *

Bellamy doesn’t put the card with the lipstick. He wants to see what happens, if anything, and he’s not disappointed.

“Hi Bell!” Octavia sings as she comes through the apartment door that afternoon. Clarke follows more sedately, and Bellamy watches bemused as she takes the time to turn the deadbolt and draw the chain. Octavia’s practically glowing as she tosses herself onto the couch.

“Good day?” he asks, and Octavia’s so bubbly that she doesn’t notice the long look he and Clarke share. Clarke’s cheeks go a little pink when he locks eyes with her, but her smile is real and easy.

Octavia sighs. “The best.”

“What did you do?” he asks, heading into the hall to the laundry closet.

“Oh,” Octavia pauses for a minute. “Saw Jasper and Monty for a bit; they’re home for break, too.”

Octavia’s hidden from view where he’s standing, loading clothes from the dryer into Octavia’s hamper, but he can just barely see Clarke where she’s sat down on the edge of the couch. She’s wrinkling her nose at Octavia, but quickly adopts a neutral expression when Bellamy rejoins them in the living room.

“Sounds good,” he says as he plops the hamper on the armchair and makes a show of folding one of her tops.

It’s downright comical––she doesn’t notice at first, just talks about the food at the Dee Cee’s Diner and how the stuffed french toast is always so good, and does he remember that time when Jasper put eight whole strawberries in his mouth on a dare and then sneezed? And then she stops mid-sentence as he pulls out a pair of her jeans and shakes them to get the creases out.

“Are those my jeans?” she asks in a high pitched voice.

“They’re definitely not mine,” Bellamy says. “Clarke?” He holds out the jeans to her, and she shakes her head, an amused smile on her face.

“There’s no way my ass would fit in those,” she says. Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her and plucks her exercise pants out of the basket. He waves the little garment in the air.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, princess,” he says, and then tenses when Clarke’s eyes widen and dart to Octavia.

Shit. Okay, stop flirting with Clarke in front of O, at least for now.

Octavia doesn’t notice at least, too busy jumping off the couch and grabbing the pants out of Bellamy’s hand. She digs through the pockets, then drops them on the ground and starts rummaging through the hamper. She pulls out another pair of pants and searches those.

“Looking for something, O?” he asks after a minute of just watching her grow more and more frantic.

“I–there was something in my pockets,” she says distractedly.

“I put your lipstick on your dresser,” he tells her, and she looks at him sharply before dashing to her room.

“Ugh,” he hears her say. “Bellamy!”

“What?” he calls back, shrugging at Clarke who’s frowning at him.

“Was there anything else in the laundry?” Octavia asks.

“You mean this?” he says, and Octavia’s in front of him in a flash, snatching the card out of his hand when he pulls it from his own pocket.

“Asshole,” she sneers at him.

“Liar,” he responds, and folds another shirt.

Octavia sticks her tongue out. “How’d you figure it out, douchebag?”

Well, she’d announced it when she interrupted him about to fuck Clarke, but he doesn’t think he should tell her all that.

“Cereal bowl in the sink,” he says. “You wouldn’t eat Captain Crunch before going to Dee Cee’s because you get their never-ending french toast plate. So you went somewhere else, and probably with _someone_ else.”

“I could have split something with Clarke,” she replies mulishly.

“Leave me out of this,” Clarke demands, sitting back and crossing her arms. “I told you from the beginning, this is all you.”

“Do yourself a favor and give it up,” he tells his sister, and starts to pile all the folded laundry back into the hamper. On top he places Clarke’s exercise top and underwear, then reaches over and grabs the pants out of her lap, letting his fingers graze her thigh. She jumps a little and glares at him. He just smiles and folds the pants.

Octavia sighs and throws herself onto the couch, laying her head in Clarke’s lap. Clarke starts putting little braids in Octavia’s hair while Octavia covers her face with an arm.

“His name is Lincoln,” she says, voice muffled. “He’s an artist.”

“And a barista,” Clarke adds, then yelps when O pinches her.

“ _And_ I like him, Bell. A lot.”

Bellamy shrugs. “Okay.”

Yeah, okay, he _may_ have had a bit of a hard time when Octavia was a teenager and technically old enough to go on dates, and he may have struggled through the worst sex talk _ever_ that ended with him begging her to please not get pregnant, _ever_ , but Octavia’s a junior in college and he knows she’s capable of taking care of herself. Bellamy prides himself on not being totally unreasonable––

“And he’s twenty-eight.”

Twenty-eight?

Bellamy’s only twenty-seven.

“Twenty- _eight_?” He doesn’t mean to sound so serious, almost shocked, but that’s just the way it happens. “That’s seven years older than you, Octavia.”

“I passed math, too, Bellamy.”

“How long have you been seeing him?” he demands.

Octavia’s silent.

“ _Octavia._ ”

She sighs. “Since New Year’s. I met him during break.”

That means it’s been months. Bellamy pictures that stupid little free song card, edges worn soft from carrying it around constantly.

“And you’ve been, what? Lying to my face all week?”

“No!” Octavia says, sitting up.

He ignores her beseeching expression.

“Every time you leave the apartment, you’re going to see him? Is that why you brought Clarke with you, so she could be your, what, your fucking alibi?”

“Bell!”

But his temper is up and he can’t control his mouth when he gets mad like this.

“Why the fuck else would she want to come here for break?” he sneers. “Crappy little apartment in a crappy little town with the crappy older brother?”

“That’s enough,” Clarke snaps. She’s glaring at him, and he glares right back.

“This is between me and my sister,” he bites out. “Stay out of it.”

“No,” she says, standing up and marching right over to him. “ _You_ are the one who brought me into it, asshole.” She jabs her finger into his chest (and jesus, her tiny little finger hurts more than he expects).

“Clarke–”

“ _No,_ ” she says. “I’m not Octavia’s alibi because she’s not doing anything wrong. I’ve met Lincoln, and he’s nice and responsible and courteous and–and– and well-groomed!”

Bellamy stares at her. “Well- _what_?”

“And I’m here because your sister invited me,” she continues, ignoring him, “because my dad is dead and my mom doesn’t speak to me, and Octavia’s kind and open and and didn’t want to leave me alone.”

He registers Octavia still sitting on the couch, watching her friend with wide eyes, but he can only focus on Clarke. Her cheeks are burning, but with fury instead of passion, and the way her limbs tremble say less about desire _for_ him and more about her desire to potentially strangle him.

“So stop _judging_ people you don’t even know, Bellamy Blake, and get your head out of your ass.” With a final glare and poke ( _ow_ ), Clarke stalks off toward Octavia’s room, where he hears her shut the door firmly.

Bellamy’s left standing open-mouthed, rubbing his chest and wondering what the hell just happened.

“Great job, Bell,” he hears Octavia say, but his chest hurts for a different reason when he hears the upset in her voice. He looks at her and her eyes are glassy. Shit.

“O–” he starts, but she holds up a hand, slipping the card into her pocket with the other.

“Just leave me alone, Bellamy,” she says. “And better yet, leave Clarke alone. She doesn’t need your shit.”

Bellamy watches with a sinking feeling as she walks down the hall even more quietly than Clarke. Octavia’s a door-slammer, and the near-silent click of her bedroom door is like a punch to the gut.

* * *

Bellamy’s been Octavia’s sole caregiver since she was twelve years old, and he’s fucked up before. And he knows that when Octavia’s upset, she wants two things: one, to be left alone, and two, junk food.

So he leaves her hamper of clean clothes in front of her bedroom door, the box of Captain Crunch perched carefully on top. Then he heads into his own bedroom with conspicuously loud steps and waits two minutes, after which the hamper is gone from the hall.

At dinner time he leaves a plate heaped with freshly made quesadillas (Octavia’s favorite) and a BLT for Clarke ( _what_ , O said she was lactose intolerant, it’s just courteous to make her something without cheese).

At nine he deposits a massive bowl of popcorn and king size boxes of Junior Mints and Milk Duds that he made a special trip to the corner store for. (And no, he didn’t scour Octavia’s social media for any mention of what Clarke’s favorite food is. Besides, it seems like Clarke doesn’t have a Facebook and Octavia makes a special effort not to mention her, so the closest he gets is a picture on her Instagram of a pile of candy and a copy of _Pitch Perfect_ from two months ago that Octavia captioned “Movie night!!!” plus a bunch of emoticons Bellamy can’t really decipher.)

A few minutes after the snacks disappear, he hears the familiar tones of Reese Witherspoon when Octavia starts up her feel-good movie, _Legally Blonde._

Bellamy sighs and flops down on his bed as some of the tension that’s been building in his muscles over the past hours dissipates. If Octavia’s willing to be soothed by Elle Woods, she’s on the way to forgiving him.

He doesn’t _want_ to admit it, that he’s done something crappy enough to require forgiveness, but he’s a grown-ass man and he fucked up. It’s shitty, because he blew up over this Lincoln guy’s age, but that’s not what actually bothers him. Yeah, Octavia’s young, but he’s been the one raising her for _years_ , and part of raising her was making damn sure that she knows how to take care of herself.

But he hates that she lied to him about this guy. He knows she has secrets––he has his own, too. But if this guy is important enough that Octavia’s been carrying around that stupid little doodle for over three goddamn months, that’s a bigger kind of secret than they allow each other.

He turns over and groans into his pillow. And he brought _Clarke_ into it, as if he didn’t act like enough of a dick. She’s not even used to his shitty temper, and she probably thinks he’s the biggest asshole on earth with even bigger mood swings, going from nearly fucking her in the bathroom to basically accusing her of being a criminal.

After an hour or so of cyclical self-hatred his stomach grumbles and he rolls off the bed with a sigh. He’d been so preoccupied with O’s apology snacks that he hadn’t eaten all day, so he wanders out of his room.

Bellamy’s almost to the kitchen when he stops, turns back to Octavia’s door. It’s cracked open the littlest bit, likely from when she snatched the popcorn and candy out of the hall. He can still hear _Legally Blonde_ but other than that it’s quiet. He clenches his hands into fists and grimaces as he fights the urge to check in on his sister. Then his shoulders slump and he gently pushes the door open a few more inches.

Both Octavia and Clarke are asleep, their faces lit only by the glow of Octavia’s computer playing the movie. Octavia’s head is pillowed on Clarke’s shoulder, and her face is smooth and calm but he can see the puffiness under her eyes and he feels a surge of guilt. Clarke has a little furrow between her brow and her neck is cricked at an uncomfortable-looking angle, and the opened box of Milk Duds is balanced on her stomach, rising and falling a little with every breath.

Bellamy tries to think if he’s ever seen Octavia this comfortable with another girl. Her best friends growing up were Jasper and Monty, and yeah, the three of them were always close, but the guys preferred _Fight Club_ and _Gladiator_ and _Monty Python and the Holy Grail._

Okay, Octavia doesn’t mind _Monty Python_ if only because she likes to tell Bellamy that he “can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you,” but that’s not the point. The point is that since their mother died, Bellamy’s done his best, but Octavia’s never had a meaningful relationship with another woman and seeing her with Clarke, with a friend she can cry with and watch fucking Reese Witherspoon movies with and bring to meet the boyfriend his sister won’t even tell him about…

Octavia deserves someone who’s always on her side, even if that side’s against him.   

Bellamy can’t allow himself to fuck that up.

He wouldn’t forgive himself if he did.

So he retreats from Octavia’s room and silently closes the door. And he goes to the kitchen and forces himself to eat a sloppily made sandwich that tastes like sawdust. And then he goes to his room and grabs his phone to call Miller, because he’s going to beg for every extra shift Miller will give him for the rest of the week, so he doesn’t fuck Clarke or fuck things up with Octavia any more than he already has.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos on chapter one! Alas, now we get into the smidgen of emotional plot, so the sexy times have been somewhat postponed. I hope you still enjoyed the update–let me know your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy's plan to be a good brother by avoiding Clarke is thwarted thanks to Octavia.

Bellamy waits until Clarke’s in the shower (while he carefully avoids the thought of Clarke in the shower) the next morning before he ducks into Octavia’s room and drops a kiss on his sister’s forehead while she’s painting her toes blue.

“I’m sorry, O,” he says, and Octavia just watches him silently.

“I–I’d like to meet him, sometime,” he adds awkwardly, and stands there anxiously for some kind of response. When she sighs and scrunches her face up at him, he smiles in response.

Then Octavia frowns. “You going somewhere?” she asks, waving her nail polish at his jeans and t-shirt, the button-down clenched in his fist.

“I talked to Miller,” he says, “Shipment’s coming in today and he could use some help at the bar. Then I’m covering for Connor.” He covers for Connor pretty often, whenever the other guy’s kid is sick or has Back to School night or something, which Octavia knows. Connor’s not actually scheduled to work tonight, but Octavia doesn’t know that. (It’s one of those okay secrets. The kind he keeps from her because it’s best for her.)

“Oh,” Octavia says. “I guess I’ll see you later?”

He nods. “You and Clarke have fun today. And, uh, tell her I said sorry. Please?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Whatever, Bell.”

He frowns. “I am.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Lincoln sooner. Now go to work.”

* * *

He makes it through that day and the next barely seeing either of the girls currently staying in the apartment. Yeah, he feels like a shitty brother when he’s hiding out at the museum or in Grounders making daiquiris and mojitos and martinis, but he tells himself that keeping himself away from Octavia, and especially Clarke, is good-brother-behavior in the long run. He’s back on track.

That’s why he’s wildly irritated to see Octavia walking into Grounders on Saturday night, trailed by a massive and substantially tattooed man and Clarke.

(He definitely doesn’t notice the sparkly tank top and high waisted skirt Clarke’s wearing. Or the way she tugs a little self-consciously at the hem as it rides up with her stride. And the dark red shine of her lips totally slips his notice.)

Clarke briefly touches Octavia’s shoulder and then heads toward the bathrooms while Octavia makes a beeline for the bar.

“Hey Bell!” Octavia says, sliding into a seat in front of where he’s mixing drinks for a bachelorette party currently on the dance floor. The tattooed guy sits next to her, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Hey,” he replies slowly, looking between the two. “What are you doing here, O?”

“Well _someone_ has been a total loser nerd and has been working all week long, so I decided to come to you,” she says. “And I want you to meet someone. Bellamy, this is Lincoln. My boyfriend.”

Lincoln rests one hand on Octavia’s shoulder and holds out the other to Bellamy.

“Nice to meet Octavia’s brother,” the man says as they shake hands. “Finally.” Octavia sticks her tongue out at Lincoln but Bellamy notices the way she squeezes the hand on her shoulder affectionately.

“You too,” Bellamy says, and then notices the black tattoo on Lincoln’s forearm. It’s an intricate tree, not a portrait, but the style is similar to the little picture of Octavia on the iTunes card. “Is this your work?” he asks.

Lincoln looks a little surprised. “Yeah, actually. All of my tattoos are my designs.”

“It’s good. I like it,” Bellamy says, and he means it. While Bellamy starts to garnish the frilly bachelorette drinks, they start a surprisingly easy conversation about Lincoln’s art, his work at the coffeeshop, his apprenticeship at the local tattoo parlor, and it continues until Clarke appears behind Lincoln. The man stands up and offers his seat to Clarke, who beams at him in thanks.

“Hey–” Bellamy has to clear his throat. “Hey, Clarke.”

“Bellamy,” she responds, her smile dimming.

“Uh, can I get you guys something to drink?” he asks after a second too long of silence. Octavia’s giving him a funny look, but before he can really process it she shakes her head.

“Lincoln and I are going to go dance first,” she says. “But Clarke likes Jack and Coke!”

“I–” Clarke tries to say, but Octavia’s already grabbed Lincoln to tow him away to the small but crowded dance floor. She sighs and stares at the dark wood of the bar.

Bellamy doesn’t really know what to say to her. What’s a safe topic for conversation with a girl you’ve eaten out on your bathroom counter and now have to keep yourself away from?

Shit. Fuck if he knows.

So he busies himself with making the best Jack and Coke he can and adds a little pink umbrella and a straw to the low glass, even though he’s only supposed to use the umbrellas with the more expensive tropical drinks. (It’s the same pink as that exercise top of hers, he figures she’ll like it, so _what._ )

He slides it across the bar to her and she glares at it, glares at him, then glares at the drink again before grasping it. Clarke ignores the little straw and takes a gulp straight from the glass, and Bellamy is transfixed by the perfect glossy print left on the rim by her lipstick.

“So,” Bellamy says.

“So,” she repeats flatly.

“What have you and Octavia been up to?” he asks.

She scoffs.

“What?” he asks defensively.

“Give me a break, Bellamy,” she snaps. She knocks back another swig of her drink. The group to the right of Clarke call out for beers so Bellamy starts pulling a couple pints while Clarke glares at him. Which honestly kind of sucks because now Bellamy knows that he has a serious Thing for Angry-Clarke, in additions to his Things for Sweaty-Clarke, Sleepy-Clarke, Happy-Clarke, and basically every Clarke he’s encountered.

He sets the beers down firmly in front of the men and goes straight back to Clarke.

“What’s your deal, princess?” he says.

“You!” she says. “You’ve been avoiding me, us, for _days_ , Bellamy. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Shit. Add “Thing for Cursing-Clarke” to the list.

“I’ve had work,” he tries.

“Yeah, but you had work earlier in the week and we still fucking saw you,” Clarke replies. “You at least ate a meal a day with your sister. Then you find out about Lincoln and you just, what, cut out completely? To punish her or something? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bellamy tries to remind himself that this is why he’s been avoiding Clarke, that her devotion to his little sister isn’t something he should mess with, but it’s hard not to try and defend himself in the face of Clarke’s wrath.

“It’s not Lincoln,” he says. “I apologized about that. And I told Octavia to tell you sorry, too; didn’t she tell you?”

“She did,” Clarke allows. Then her expression changes; her face falls a little. “Wait. It’s not Lincoln?”

Bellamy shakes his head, feeling baffled, and becomes even more so when Clarke bites her lip––in the sad way, not the hot way. (Though, if he’s honest, everything about Clarke is always hot to him.)

“Clarke?” he asks.

“So it’s me,” she says, her voice stiff.

“What?”

Clarke’s eyes are a little glassy as she tosses back the rest of her drink, then pulls out the umbrella to start shredding in her fingers.

“I’m a big girl, Bellamy,” she says. “You could have just said something if you regretted it. You didn’t have to avoid your own sister, your own goddamned apartment.”

Wait, what?

“ _What_?” he repeats. Then he realizes. “Wait, no. I don’t regret it.”

He regrets that he shouldn’t do it ever again. He regrets that part a lot. But he doesn’t regret _it_ , doesn’t regret Clarke.

“Right,” Clarke says. “You just suddenly take objection to your own home.”

Bellamy plops two umbrellas into the new drink he slides over to her (blue and yellow this time). She takes it absently and starts stirring it with the blue umbrella.

“I don’t–I can’t–” Bellamy says, then waves irritatedly at a request for two mojitos. He tries to explain while he juices the limes. “Clarke, I–I want you. But you’re Octavia’s roommate.”

Clarke opens her mouth but he cuts her off.

“Octavia’s friend,” he says. “Probably her best friend ever. And I don’t want to fuck that up for her.”

She takes that in silently, sipping her drink and studying him with cool blue eyes while he takes out his frustration on citrus and mint leaves.

Eventually she says, “You could have just said that. I wouldn’t have been upset.”

Bellamy shrugs. “I could have, I guessed. But I still couldn’t be around you.”

Clarke’s brow furrows. “Why not?”

“I like you too much,” he replies. “Even if I was a total dick the other night. I like you, Clarke.”

Clarke’s cheeks are pink, and she clears her throat and takes a sip of her drink.

“Okay.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrow. “Okay?”

Clarke nods. “Okay. You’re an idiot, and apparently one with really poor self control, but okay.”

Bellamy stares at her. “I...don’t know what you’re saying okay to.”

“Okay,” she repeats. “Octavia’s my best friend, and you’re her hot dumbass brother with an unfortunately talented mouth. End of story. That’s it.”

With one last sip of her drink, she stands up and jabs a finger into his chest ( _why_ does she like doing that so much?). “It’s your loss, Bellamy. I don’t know why you think you’d fuck things up with me, or for Octavia––that’s on you to figure out. But you’re going to have to do it soon, because I’m going to be around for a long time.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. Probably just need a cool-down period, or something. So I can be around you as a friend.”

Clarke looks incredibly amused at that. “A cool-down period. Right. Let me know how that goes, Bellamy Blake.”

Then she goes sauntering off and he watches as Octavia welcomes her enthusiastically to the dance floor. (Thing for Dancing-Clarke is added to his list.)

“Blake!”

Bellamy turns to see Miller frowning at him. “Are you going to cover your part of the bar, or are you too busy checking out the hot blonde?”

“Bite me,” he replies, and downs the last of Clarke’s drink.

* * *

It takes a good hour for the bar to settle down enough for him to take his break, yet his sister must have some freaky sixth sense about it because she appears in front of him the second he steps out from behind the bar.

“Finally,” she says, seizing his hand and dragging him after her.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s going on?” Bellamy asks. He’s been on his feet for more hours than he’d like to think of, and he’s needed to piss for the last half hour.

Octavia makes an impatient noise while she tugs him along. “We’re all here to see you, so you’re obligated to hang out with us during the break,” she explains.

“Can I at least pee first, commander?” he asks dryly, trying and failing to extract his hand from her scarily strong hold.

Octavia stops walking and huffs. “Fine, loser. Meet us over there when you’re done, and hurry your ass up.” She points to where Lincoln is dancing with Clarke, a grin on the other man’s face and a hilariously serious expression on Clarke’s.

Bellamy sighs. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to be getting any actual sit-down time on this break. “Fine.”

Octavia heads back over to the others, and Bellamy quickly takes care of business (which does not include double-checking the appearance of his shirt and hair, thank you very much. Besides, he knows his hair is always a lost cause). He spots the three of them on the edge of the dance floor and waves, but his sister must not see because she grabs Lincoln’s hand and drags him back into the crowd, exclaiming that it’s her song loud enough for him to hear halfway across the room. They leave Clarke standing by herself, arms crossed with an indulgent look on her face.

She sees Bellamy’s approach and offers him a little smile.

He nods back at her and takes up a stance beside her, hands stuffed in his jean pockets.

“So,” he says.

“We’re not doing this again,” she says in an excessively pleasant voice.

He looks at her askance, then winces. “Okay, that’s probably a good idea,” he says.

He plans to continue standing in silence next to her, observing his little sister and Lincoln dancing, but Octavia catches his eye from where she’s dancing and her glare is horrendous. He can see the way her gaze shifts meaningfully from him to Clarke and back, and then she raises her eyebrows.

Oh god, Bellamy thinks.

Then she glares again and his shoulders slump. So much for keeping his distance.

“Clarke. Do you want to dance.” Perhaps if he doesn’t _say_ it like a question, she won’t realize he’s asking one.

He peeks at her in his periphery. Nope. She’s frowning at him.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because my sister looks like she wants to kill me,” he replies, and Clarke glances back at the dancing couple just in time to see a particularly lethal look aimed at Bellamy between twirls.

“Octavia,” Clarke sighs. Then, “Fine.”

“Fine?” he echoes.

“Bellamy!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Uh, alright,” he says, offering a hand to her. She wrinkles her nose at him but slaps her hand in his as if it’s a high five.

He stifles a smile as he leads her further out into the dancing crowd. Once far enough in, he drops her hand and they start to dance. It’s a little awkward at first, but it’s a high energy song and they don’t need to touch a lot for it to be kind of fun. Just when Clarke’s really getting into it, and he’s really getting into Clarke getting into it, the song changes. It’s a lower, darker beat, definitely not a slow song but not a “hold your hands in the air and jump” kind of song either.

Clarke slows her previous moves and they’re left making awkward eye contact, the only people on the dance floor not touching. Bellamy swallows and thinks about asking Clarke if she wants to head back to the bar for a drink when Octavia catches his eye again; he didn’t think it was possible for her expression to get any scarier, but it seems he was wrong.

Yes, he wants to avoid Clarke, to make sure that his little sister keeps the best friend she never had before, all that jazz. But he also wants to be able to sleep tonight without fearing his little sister is going to smother him in his fucking sleep.

So he moves around Clarke, who stands stock still, until he’s behind her and gently pressing up against her back. He can feel the way she inhales sharply, but she doesn’t pull away, instead placing a hand over his when he slides an arm around her waist.

She’s warm and perfect against him, and Bellamy suddenly can’t quite remember how to move, but then Clarke takes over, and when she starts to sway he follows her movement. It’s hot on the dance floor, and he thinks he’s in love with the way the steady beat of the song is synced with the movement of her hips. Bellamy can tell the moment she stops caring that they shouldn’t be touching like this, because her swaying turns into rhythmic grinding and that’s when _he_ stops caring that they shouldn’t be touching like this. He barely notices the heat or the sweat gathering on his body, so completely focused on Clarke, the way it feels like electricity is arcing between them, the way every inch of him is hyperaware of every inch of hers.

And then she turns in his hold until she’s looking at him, pressed up against him chest to chest, and her hands slide up around his neck while his find new purchase on her hips (and then if his hands accidentally slip to her ass, it’s her fault for moving, alright, her skirt is slippery).

It’s dark in Grounders, but Clarke’s eyes are normally so blue it’s easy to see the way her pupils are blown wide, and he imagines his own look the same, because goddamnit he thinks this is the most turned on he’s ever been by a fucking dance. His hands flex on her ass without his conscious permission and in response Clarke’s eyes grow even darker as she grinds against him with an almost vicious twist of her hips. He wonders for a second if she’s punishing him somehow, then decides he doesn’t care.

Bellamy’s self control is rapidly running out, and the way Clarke’s looking at him and moving against him is not helping, and he’s just started to duck his mouth toward the curve of her neck when the song ends. They’re left motionless, staring at each other, his body taut against hers, her body soft and yielding against his.

Bellamy doesn’t want to move away, he wants to move as close as he fucking can, he wants to cover Clarke’s mouth with his own and swallow any sound she makes, he wants to drag her into the darkest corner of the room and touch her until she comes with that look still in her eyes and his name on her lips. He wants all of those things, so with a massive force of will he lifts his hands from her hips and slowly steps back out of her grasp.

“My break’s probably over,” he says hoarsely, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he can’t reach for her, and willing his body to calm.

He can’t help but notice when her lips part a little, still wet and red and _fuck_.

“You should probably go, then,” Clarke says eventually. He nods but doesn’t move until she arches an eyebrow. As he finally turns to leave her, he sees Octavia across the dance floor. She’s still dancing with Lincoln, but she’s staring at him with a furrowed brow and a pensive expression. Bellamy doesn’t know what that look means, and he doesn’t know if he wants to, so he gets the hell back to the bar.

* * *

Lincoln, Octavia, and Clarke are lingering near the exit when he finally finishes his shift in the early hours of the morning. Other than his coworkers, they’re the only ones still left. When Bellamy emerges from the back, wallet and keys in hand, he sees Octavia speaking to Miller with a brilliant smile and a hand patting the man’s shoulder. Lincoln, he notices, looks somewhat amused, and Clarke has the littlest frown.

 _Shit._ Bellamy hopes that Miller doesn’t say anything to rat him out to his sister about picking up the extra shifts.

When he reaches them, Miller nods at him with a “night, man” and Octavia smiles at Bellamy in greeting, so it seems like Bellamy’s still in the clear.

Then Octavia says, “Great news, Bell!”

“Yeah?” he replies, eyeing her satisfied smile.

“Hell yeah,” she says. “Long story short, everyone loves me, including Miller. I _begged_ for you to have tomorrow off since you worked more than usual this week, and Clarke and I are leaving on Monday. And he said to tell you not to set foot back in here until next Friday or you’re fired!”

“Oh,” he says. Crap.

“Isn’t that great?” Octavia says. “Now let’s bounce, bitches. I’m beat.”

She leads the way to the parking lot. Clarke slides into the back of Bellamy’s car while Octavia gives Lincoln a smacking kiss goodbye.

Once the other man has driven away, his sister plops into the passenger seat and leans against the window with a happy sigh.

“It’s been such a great night, hasn’t it?” she murmurs.

He sighs, catches Clarke’s gaze in the rearview mirror as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Yeah. Great.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your comments! Every single one is appreciated. Sadly, no hatesex in this chapter as some of you predicted. But if you're sticking around just for the sexy times, you will hopefully enjoy the upcoming chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy wakes up to find that he's alone in the apartment with Clarke.

When Bellamy wakes up late the next morning, he checks his phone in case Miller’s changed his mind and wants him to come in.

No such luck.

Goddamned devious little sister.

Bellamy sighs and wanders into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash a little water on his face to wake himself up fully. If he has to be around Octavia and Clarke all day (especially Clarke), he needs to be _alert._

But when he starts to head to the kitchen, he notices Octavia’s door is wide open. Which is odd, because she hates sleeping with the door open like that. (It all stems from a poor decision on his part that involved shadow puppets and creepy sound effects when Octavia was six, but that’s not the point.)

Peering in, he sees Clarke curled up in the middle of the bed, comforter pulled up to her chin, but no Octavia in sight, though he has a very clear memory of Octavia walking into the apartment the night before.

Thinking maybe she’s in the kitchen, he leaves Clarke sleeping. There’s no Octavia eating breakfast, but there is a note taped to the fridge.

 

_B &C: Forgot Lincoln was carrying my phone for me (why no pockets in dresses??), so I have to go back out. (I called a cab with C's phone, don't worry.) Prob will stay night there bc it’s so late and I’m sleepy; have plans to chill w/ Lincoln tomorrow since we leave Monday morning, so I will see u tomorrow night!! Have fun and be nice to each other :) -xoxO_

 

“Damn it, O,” he mutters. Yeah, this isn’t a major city, but it was well after midnight when she left and she didn’t have her phone so Lincoln wouldn’t know to expect her, and why couldn’t she wait until _morning_? Then, as if on cue, his phone chirps with a text from Octavia, telling him not to be a worrywart, that she got to Lincoln’s just fine the night before, and she’ll see him and Clarke after dinner.

Bellamy sighs and thuds his head against the refrigerator door.

“You’re supposed to crack eggs in the morning, not your skull,” Clarke’s sleepy voice says. Bellamy turns around so fast he nearly stumbles, and his cheeks flush.

Then he sees Clarke, and it feels like all of him is flushing. She’s standing by the coffee pot, staring mournfully at the empty carafe, and for some reason she’s wearing one of his old t-shirts with the museum’s logo on the chest, and it’s massive on her, and she’s got on a pair of those fuzzy socks that girls seem to like so much, except these ones go all the way up to her knees.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice absolutely does _not_ crack. “Uh, nice pajamas?”

Clarke glances down at herself. “Oh. Yeah, sorry, Octavia got it for me when I spilled orange juice on my pjs. I still haven’t done my laundry.”

“It’s fine,” he says. A little too fine, but he can deal with it. “Hungry?”

She frowns and shakes the empty coffee pot at him. “Yes, but more importantly, caffeine-deprived.”

He rolls his eyes but takes it from her and loads the machine with grounds. As the coffee percolates, he starts to pull ingredients from the fridge.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asks, glancing at where she’s impatiently waiting for enough coffee in the carafe to pour a cup.

“Cracked,” she says.

“Ha,” he says. “Hilarious.”

With a little sound of triumph, Clarke snatches a mug from the cupboard and pours a cup of steaming coffee. He notices her read Octavia’s note with a little frown when she maneuvers around him to add a dollop of almond milk and an obscene amount of sugar to her mug.

“Hey,” he says as he rummages in the meat and cheese drawer, “how lactose intolerant are you?”

“I can’t drink milk, but that’s also partly because I loathe it,” Clarke says, hoisting herself up on the counter to watch him. “But I can handle other things in small quantities.”

Keep it together, Blake, he tells himself when the sight of her on top of a counter brings back terribly wonderful memories. He can control himself for a couple hours. He _can_. _Just make the fucking breakfast._

“Cheddar okay?” he asks. When she nods, he starts cracking eggs into a bowl.

“Just the way I like them,” Clarke comments, grinning behind her mug.

“Well, princess, if you have no other requirements, they’re also going to be scrambled.”

Bellamy cooks and Clarke watches in a surprisingly comfortable silence, considering the frequently inappropriate direction of Bellamy’s thoughts and the memory of their dance last night. Clarke occasionally swings her feet and thuds them against the cabinets while Bellamy maneuvers around her to get salt and pepper, bread, an avocado, plates. When the eggs finish cooking with a sprinkle of cheese, he spreads avocado on toast and tops the slices off with scoops of the eggs.

“Interesting,” Clarke comments.

“Delicious,” he replies. “Come on, bring your coffee.”

She hops down but pours a second mug of coffee that she places in front of him on his little dining table. Bellamy raises the mug at her in thanks, then watches her take the first bite of her breakfast. She closes her eyes briefly and smiles.

“Delicious,” she agrees.

They make quick work of the meal (and _no,_ Bellamy doesn’t notice when a piece of egg falls off her toast and Clarke pops it into her mouth with her fingers) and soon they’re left with empty plates, sipping their coffee.

“So,” Bellamy says after a few minutes of silence.

“So,” Clarke repeats, her lips quirking up in a little smile.

He shifts in his chair. “I, uh, wanted to apologize again. To your face. About what I said.”

He knows she follows his change of subject when she glances down at her plate for a moment before looking back up. Clarke shrugs at him, but he can tell she’s biting the inside of her cheek in that way she does. “It was a crappy thing to say. But my family’s kind of crappy, so…”

“Our dad split before O was born,” Bellamy offers, as if his family pain can make up for bringing up hers. Stupid, he thinks.

“Octavia told me. She also said it didn’t matter, because she’s always had you.”

Bellamy smiles faintly. “Yeah, well. She doesn’t really know any better.”

Clarke scoffs at him. “Stop acting like such a martyr, Bellamy, jesus. Anyone with a brain can tell that you’re an amazing brother, even if you sometimes say stupid shit. Octavia’s lucky to have someone like you on her side.”

Bellamy doesn’t really know how to respond to that. Thankfully, Clarke takes a deep breath and keeps talking.

“My dad, he was always on my side. My mother wanted me to be a cardiothoracic surgeon, I wanted to be an art teacher, my dad was stuck in the middle. Then last year, my dad was driving to my junior showcase. And there was an accident.”

Bellamy puts his hand on top of hers, strokes her knuckles with his thumb. Clarke gives him a half-hearted smile.

“My mom was convinced that if I had been pre-med, he never would have been driving that night and never would have died. Which is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever _heard_ , and my dad had just _died_ , and who says that to their daughter? And my dad _loved_ my art, and me, and it was such bullshit. So I ignored her and kept working my ass off until I couldn’t stand being in the same city as my mother anymore and transferred. And that’s that.”

She says it firmly, but something in the set of her chin doesn’t let him stop stroking her hand.

“Sounds like a bitch,” he says eventually, and she laughs, a real laugh if a bit watery.

“I guess,” she replies. “My dad used to say she doesn’t like to acknowledge her mistakes. She’d rather just continue on with her life. Which doesn’t sound so bad in theory, but then all my life she kept making the same mistakes with me.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to run from your mistakes, princess,” he says. She turns her hand over and he starts tracing the lines in her palm instead.

“Nah,” she says, “I’m more the type to wake up at one in the morning and agonize for three hours over that humiliating thing I did in the seventh grade. Never forget, never let go.”

Bellamy snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you were a real embarrassment, Clarke.”

“Hey!” she says indignantly. “I was a hot mess in middle school, I’ll have you know.”

“You’re still a hot mess,” he says, leering at her comically, wanting more than anything to coax a real smile out of her again.

It works––she bursts out laughing and tugs her hand away just to hit him.

He catches her fist in his and laughs before sobering.

“Clarke,” he says, “you know you’ve got people on your side still, right? Octavia’s on your side.” He clears his throat. “And even though we’re, uh, well, you know. I’m on your side.”

“Oh,” she says, and he hates the little note of surprise in her voice (how the fuck could she think that they _weren’t_ on her side?) but he loves the smile that blooms on her face and the way her fingers lace through his. “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” she says.

They sit there, smiling like loons at each other, until Bellamy’s hand in hers feels less comforting and more electric, and he swallows as he takes in her bright blue eyes surrounded by last night’s smeared makeup, the golden hairs that are falling out of her messy bun, the way his shirt ( _his_ shirt!) is almost falling off of one of her shoulders.

He abruptly lets go of her and stands, piling all of their dishes into a precarious stack before dumping them in the sink. Then he stares at them for a good minute, telling himself he doesn’t feel Clarke’s gaze on his back, and that he absolutely has control over himself ( _shit_ , no he doesn’t).

“So,” Clarke says suddenly, and he turns when he hears the scrape of her chair as she stands, “About that cool-down period, does it have to start, like, immediately, or is the start date optional, or–”

“I can postpone it a day or so,” Bellamy says hoarsely, and then Clarke’s pressed up against him, her hands in his hair and her lips on his and he pulls her as close as he can get her.

“It’s probably––a good thing––to just––get it out––of your system,” Clarke pants in between kisses. “You can really––move past it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Bellamy agrees mindlessly, moving to scrape his teeth along her throat and relishing the groan Clarke lets out. They kiss, stumbling until Clarke backs into the table where she takes the opportunity to hop up, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him closer into another kiss.

His fingertips dig into her back when she sucks on his lower lip, which prompts a moan from her in response. She tastes bitter this time, from the coffee, but her mouth is still one of the sweetest things he’s ever tasted.

Standing in the cradle of her hips means that when she rocks, she rocks against him and he pulls his mouth from hers with a gasp only to lick and nibble along her collarbone.

“Bellamy,” she says breathlessly, “ _Bellamy._ ”

“Clarke,” he mutters against her skin.

“ _Off_ ,” she demands, pushing against his shoulders, and he immediately backs away, groin throbbing and heart racing, to search her face.

“You alright?” he asks. She’s flushed and breathing heavily.

Clarke rolls her eyes at him. “I’m fine,” she says. “Off,” she repeats, and this time he can see that she’s gesturing at his t-shirt and pajama pants.

“Oh,” he says with a grin. “In just a minute, princess.”

Instead of shucking his clothes, he ducks and grabs her around the waist, hoisting her over his shoulder.

“Bellamy!” she yelps, smacking his back as he hurriedly carries her to his bedroom. He smacks her ass in return, and she lets out a little yip. When he dumps her on his bed, she’s giggling and trying to glare at him at the same time.

“You’re such a loser,” she says between laughs, then stops completely when he shucks his t-shirt and throws it into the corner.

He smirks at her as he climbs onto the bed and over her. “If you say so, princess,” he replies, and then kisses her. She opens her lips willingly, and the taste of her mouth, hot and sweet and bitter, sends a bolt of desire straight through him.

Clarke wiggles until he shifts and helps her pull off the t-shirt she’s wearing until she’s left clad in only the ridiculous knee socks and a tiny pair of lacy red panties.

She must see him looking at the underwear appreciatively because she says with a wicked grin, “I picked them last night because they matched my lipstick.”

“Oh god,” says Bellamy, and Clarke’s laugh at him quickly turns into a surprised moan when he sucks one pert nipple into his mouth. He thumbs the other nipple for a moment, then drags his hand down her body until he presses against her clit through the lacy fabric and her moan becomes a high-pitched little cry.

Her hands splay across the skin of his back, sending little frissons of feeling through him every moment as he touches her. Bellamy keeps stroking lightly against the lace and and nibbling on her breasts until her hips are constantly moving and she starts to whimper every few moments. Finally she pulls her hands away and pushes against him; he follows her unspoken commands until he’s on his back next to her. She pushes herself to her knees and pulls of his pants and boxers in one move.

“Shit, Bellamy,” she says, and he watches the way she wets her lips at the sight of his cock.

“Clarke,” is all he can say. She wiggles around until her panties are off.

When she reaches for her socks, he says with forced nonchalance, “You could leave those on. If you wanted.”

She pauses, arches a brow. “Really?”

He swallows and nods, eyes tracing over her skin, all bared but for the socks covering her to the knee.

“Alright,” she says, and then she leans forward and grasps him firmly, and he lets out an embarrassingly loud groan. When she strokes upward, his hips rise up off the bed in an unwitting attempt to follow her touch.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he pants. _Fuck._ All he wants is for Clarke to never stop touching him. Fuck, fuck fuck.

“Bellamy,” he hears Clarke say, and he opens the eyes he didn’t realize he had closed. “I’m clean,” she says. “On the pill.”

“Clean,” he agrees, and she smiles.

“Good.” With that, she lets go of him, and Bellamy would have made a sound of complaint except for the fact that then Clarke straddles him and sinks down onto his cock in one quick move.

Clarke sighs when she’s seated firmly around him. “Fuck, that’s good,” she breathes out; then her breath hitches when Bellamy flexes upward inside her.

(He couldn’t help doing it; it seems his thing for Cursing-Clarke might be a little stronger than he bargained for.)

Bellamy had thought he could imagine how good it would feel to fuck Clarke; turns out he had no fucking idea. She’s hot and slick and––his own breath stutters in his lungs when she clenches around him––apparently _really good_ at using those muscles down there.

His hands find their way to her hips and she starts to ride him, one hand braced low on his belly and the other holding her own breast in a way that has Bellamy swallowing hard.

He’s transfixed by the sight of her, the feel of her, the way her strokes get shorter and sloppier when she starts using both hands to pluck desperately at her own nipples; the sound of her whimpers when she leans back a little, something that feels good to him but apparently feels fucking fantastic to her. Her mouth falls open as she pants, and then she groans his name in that pleading tone, so he moves one hand from her hip to where she surrounds him––four firm strokes to her clit and she’s shaking, coming apart around him, and it takes everything he has to not come right that second, but he doesn’t want this to end yet.

When Clarke comes down from her orgasm, she sighs and leans forward to cuddle against him, her breasts to his chest and her pussy still tight around his cock. He takes the opportunity to roll them over and she squeaks at the movement, grasping his arms.

Bellamy grins down at her, and she smiles back, flushing.

“We’re not done yet, princess,” he tells her. She nips his bottom lip and wiggles her hips.

“I can feel that,” she says.

“Yeah?” he says. “What about this?” He leans down and presses a kiss to her earlobe, then to her neck, then to her clavicle where he lingers, sucking the flesh until Clarke’s hands tighten briefly on his biceps.

“I feel that,” she replies breathlessly.

“This?” he asks, then kisses her until neither of them can quite breathe.

“Yeah,” she pants. “I feel––I feel it.”

“This?” Bellamy reaches down and hooks an arm under one of Clarke’s knees, drawing it up and then thrusting firmly into her.

“I–I feel–” She chokes on her words a little, her grip tightening convulsively on his arms.

“ _Clarke_ ,” he says, thrusting pulling back and then thrusting forward again until he’s grinding against her. He keeps moving like this, because it feels fucking incredible and he’s so fucking hard and the look on Clarke’s face is one of the best things he’s ever seen.

She can’t seem to say a complete sentence, all of her attention going toward moving with each of his thrusts. And then she speaks, but the only word she gets out is his name, _his name_ , over and over until he moves faster and faster, and when she ripples around him for the second time, her voice breaking over _his_ name, he pushes into her as deep as he can go and finally, _finally_ comes.

* * *

They end up falling asleep in his bed. They aren’t asleep for long, only a little over an hour or so, but Bellamy wakes up to the sound of a phone going off. He vaguely recognizes the poppy song.

_I'm too hot (hot damn), called a police and a fireman, I'm too hot (hot damn), make a dragon wanna retire man, I'm too hot (hot damn), say my name you know who I am..._

“‘Uptown Funk’?” he asks sleepily. “Really?” (He knows the song, so _what_ , he has O for a sister, _jesus._ )

Clarke groans and rolls away from him. “Octavia’s calling me,” she says around a yawn. “She picked out her ringtone.”

She nearly trips off the bed and wanders naked out of the room, still rubbing at her eyes. Bellamy sighs and pulls his boxers back on before scooting up in the bed to lean against the wall.

The two of them just…he and Clarke… _fuck._ Bellamy scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t regret it, can’t ever regret Clarke, or the best sex of his life, but he’s not so sure that how well the _get it out of his system_ angle worked. It seems like he just wants her more.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Clarke calls before she reappears, phone in hand. She sees his questioning look and she shrugs. “I got to it too late,” she says. “And she didn’t leave a voicemail.”

She climbs back over to him, still naked and warm, and wiggles until he wraps an arm around her shoulder.

Yeah. He definitely just wants her more.

Bellamy watches idly, stroking his fingertips across her arm, as she checks her email on her phone. Then it chirps and a text from his sister pops up. Clarke swipes over to her text messages and they watch the next few texts come in.

 

Octavia: We r getting early dinner, then Lincoln’s dropping me off

Octavia: Should probably pack 2nite so we can leave first thing in morning :(

Octavia: Don’t forget about the OJ pjs!! u have plenty of time to do Bellamy before i get back

 

Bellamy tenses and can feel Clarke doing the same when her phone chirps with another text.

 

Octavia: Laundry!! u have time to do laundry!! lol autocorrect ;P

Octavia: PS pls add my sweatshirt to load if u do Bellamy

Octavia: LAUNDRY xoxo

 

Clarke’s fingers hesitate over the keyboard, then she types a quick “sure thing, have fun with Lincoln!” back to Octavia.

“Do you think she…?” Clarke trails off, looking up at him.

Bellamy shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know,” he says. “It was probably autocorrect, like she said. Probably.”

“Probably,” Clarke echoes. Then she grimaces. “Ugh, I’m sticky.”

“Yeah?” he says. “I can help you with that.”

And he does. Eventually. After he makes her stickier.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got back to the good stuff. Still a little more to come, though! ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia and Clarke leave. Bellamy handles it. Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some time-skipping magic happening throughout this chapter, so hopefully you can all follow it! (Also, the episode last night destroyed me.)

When Octavia gets back from Lincoln’s, other than their damp hair there’s no indication that just a couple hours ago he finally got to fuck Clarke in the shower.

There’s no way she could tell that he pressed Clarke between his body and the shower wall, or that she cursed at him when the cold tile made her skin erupt in goosebumps and her nipples pebble. That he pressed himself up against her back, like when they danced the night before, except this time he wormed a hand in between Clarke’s front and the tile until he had his middle finger on her clit. Or that he stroked her mercilessly to orgasm twice before she sobbed and splayed her legs apart and begged until he slid into her from behind. That she reached back and grabbed his hair in one hand, and every time she tugged on it he fucked her harder until she convulsed around him and went limp in the aftermath of her orgasm.

There’s no way for Octavia to tell all of these things, but he does think he catches her eyeing their hair for a split second (shit, can she tell that their hair is drying at the exact same pace? Maybe he should have dunked his head under the faucet again so it would look like he had taken a shower much, _much_ later than Clarke did).

But then Octavia’s face is clear, and she greets them happily before burrowing into the spot between them on the couch for their ritual _Harry Potter_ marathon.

The habit started the night before Bellamy drove Octavia to move into her freshman dorm at college. Octavia had been nervous, unable to sleep, and Bellamy wasn’t much better, trying to get ready to leave his baby sister at a school hours away. So O had curled up on the couch next to Bellamy, and they had watched the _Harry Potter_ movies in sequence until they both fell asleep.

It’s since become a thing they do every time Octavia’s set to go back to school, and this night is no different. Except that Clarke’s there too, swishing around a Red Vine wand and yelling that it’s “Wingardium Levi _o_ sa, not Levios _ah,_ you uncultured swine!” At one point her comments make Octavia laugh so hard soda comes out her nose, which sets Bellamy off in the middle of a mouthful of peanut M&Ms, and then they’re all choking and laughing until they’re red in the face.

He likes it. A lot.

It’s nice.

* * *

It’s not as nice the next morning when Bellamy has to haul the girls’ bags down to Octavia’s car, load them in the trunk. When they’re settled in their seats, he hands them travel mugs full of coffee, Octavia’s topped off with the gross french vanilla crap she likes, Clarke’s with almond milk and sugar.

He tries to smile when they both take a sip and “ahh” at the taste.

“Don’t speed, okay?” he says. “And don’t forget to text me when you get there.”

“That was _one_ time, okay?” his little sister gripes.

“Hey,” Clarke pipes up. “Hand me your phone.”

Puzzled, Bellamy fishes the thing out of his back pocket and leans through the window to hand it to her. She types quickly on the screen and then her own phone chirps from her lap.

“There,” she says with satisfaction. “I’ll text you updates, okay? So you don’t have to worry.”

He smiles at her, taking the phone back. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says. “Good luck.”

 _Good luck with that whole cooling-off period_ , he knows she’s saying.

“I’ll need it,” he replies.

“Okay, nerds,” Octavia says, eyeing them. “We’ve got to head out.” She waves at Bellamy until he ducks down to the open car window again and Octavia gives him a loud kiss on the cheek.

“Love you, big brother!” she says.

“Love you, O,” he says. “Drive safe.” His eyes shift to Clarke. “Nice to meet you, Clarke Griffin.”

She wrinkles her nose at him with a smile. “The pleasure was all mine, Bellamy Blake.”

* * *

True to her word, Clarke sends him little updates during the hours it takes them to drive back to their off-campus apartment.

 

Clarke: I think I have a sugar hangover from last night

Clarke: When someone cuts her off your sister has a mouth like a sailor on leave

Clarke: Pitstop at Starbucks!

Clarke: Ugh your coffee is better :(

Clarke: My favorite album of 2006 was My Chemical Romance’s _The Black Parade_ and I am not ashamed

Clarke: Why is the names James plural? More than one Jame? How many James?? (30 min away)

Clarke: We’re here! Never remembered to wash my OJ pjs. Whole duffel bag smells like citrus. Is a general improvement on the state of things, I think

Clarke: May make oranges a permanent thing

 

Octavia: we’re home, u loser xoxoxo

Octavia: thanks for letting me bring clarke, even if u were kind of rude sometimes i know she had fun ;)

* * *

And that’s how things go. He texts Octavia frequently and Clarke occasionally for the rest of the semester, but Clarke is getting ready to graduate and apparently is spending all of her free time job searching, so she isn’t able to reply much.

Which is good, Bellamy tells himself. He shouldn’t be texting her in the first place. Texting Clarke doesn’t help with the whole get-over-crush-on-Clarke plan. He should just quit texting her altogether. Cold turkey, no Clarke.

(He keeps texting her, though he limits it to a brief hello once a week. He didn’t expect to feel like this, once she had left again.)

He goes back to his weekday shifts at the museum, his weekend shifts at Grounders with Miller, somehow finds more time to work on finishing up his online classes for his degree (trying to get Clarke out of his head results in him working on his classes a _lot_ ).

Bellamy actually hangs out with Lincoln every now and then, and lets the other man convince him more and more that he should finally get that tattoo he’s been thinking about since he was sixteen. When Lincoln shows him a design he’s done with Bellamy in mind, and it’s fucking perfect, Bellamy sighs and makes the appointment at the tattoo parlor.

* * *

During finals week, Bellamy hesitates to send a text to Clarke and Octavia. He knows that Clarke’s not walking in her graduation ceremony; she’s just got her final exams left to take and then she’s done. Octavia has two papers and three exams to complete in the next four days, and then she’ll be heading home.

“Are group texts weird?” he asks Miller during his shift that night.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Miller replies, wiping up a spilled apple martini.

“You know, group texts,” Bellamy repeats. “Are they lame?”

Miller makes a disgusted noise and heads into the back for fresh bar towels.

The chick sitting at the bar in front of him pipes up. “Who are the texts to?”

He looks at her; she’s raising her eyebrows curiously. (She drinks palomas, he remembers; she’s ordered one every night she’s come in during the last couple of weeks.) He grabs himself a water during the lull at the bar.

“My sister,” he says eventually. “And her roommate. About when they’re leaving college.”

“Do you want to fuck the roommate?” she asks, and he chokes on his sip of water.

“Jesus!”

“Just a question,” she says with a grin. “And it looks like the answer is yes.”

He eyes her sourly. “The answer is I shouldn’t. She’s my sister’s best friend.”

The woman rolls her eyes at him. “Are you planning on fucking it up?”

Bellamy pauses. “Well. No.”

“Would she fuck it up?”

“I…don’t think so.”

“Your sister?”

“She might be mad,” he says. “I don’t know.”

He also doesn’t know what the _it_ they’re discussing actually is. What he wants from Clarke, what he thinks he can’t have. What she might want from him.

(Does he want to just fuck her? Or is she only interested in fucking him?

He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t love the feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach at the thought of being friends with benefits. Not even friends. Acquaintances.

He thinks of the way Clarke burrowed her way into his hold, naked and warm and trusting and relaxed, and he thinks of how he was content to just watch her.

He’s fucked.)

“Listen––what is your name?” she asks, and he tells her. “Listen, Bellamy Blake, go ahead and send them a group text,” the woman says, and shakes her empty glass at him. “It’ll cover your sorry ass in case your sister finds out you’re texting her roomie on the sly.”

He mixes her another drink, topping off the tequila, grapefruit, and lemon lime with a red umbrella.

“Yum,” the woman says. “You make a good drink. Hope you get lucky with the girl.”

“Thanks. Hey, what’s your name again?” Bellamy asks. She reaches across the bar and shakes his hand firmly.

“Raven,” she says. “Raven Reyes.”

* * *

Octavia sends vomiting emoticons and complaints about studying, but all Clarke replies to the group text is that she’s heading home a couple of days before Octavia leaves.

Bellamy wonders what that means. Where is home for Clarke now? Is she going to see her mother? Her old friend Wells that she mentioned in a text? Is she moving out for good at the same time? Somehow it didn’t occur to him that she could ever _not_ be Octavia’s roommate.

(Will he ever see her again, now that she’s graduated and O still has a year of college left?

He doesn’t know.

And that’s the moment he knows his plan to get over Clarke Griffin is utterly, completely, absolutely impossible.

Shit.)

* * *

He finds out a little when Octavia gets home. She chatters on and on about the girl she and Clarke agreed would take over as her new roommate for Octavia’s last year at college. Her name is Harper, and she’s a _super sweet,_ _crazy cool_ anthropology student, according to O.

Clarke’s found a good job teaching art at a high school, Octavia says when he can’t wait any longer to ask, and she decided to move straight to her new town to get acclimated before the school year starts.

“Great,” Bellamy forces out. “That’s great. Good for Clarke.”

Octavia goes on about how fun it will be to visit her, and how they’ve already made plans for her to go see Clarke this summer, but Bellamy’s not paying a lot of attention. He guesses that somehow he never bargained on going through all the trouble of trying to get over Clarke Griffin just to never see her again.   

* * *

About a week after Octavia gets home for the summer, Bellamy’s at the kitchen table, busy with schoolwork when Octavia walks over to him.

“Come on, Bell, let’s go! We’re going to be late.” His sister tugs at his arm, and he looks blearily away from the computer screen he’s been staring at for the past four hours.

“What?”

“Bell!” Octavia frowns at him. “The party? I _know_ I told you about it. Monty and Jasper will be there, who you haven’t seen in forever. Your new BFF Lincoln will be there too?”

“What?” he repeats blankly. He can’t leave. He’s four essay pages away from finishing his last class required for his degree.

Octavia huffs and shoves her way in front of him, quickly typing and then slamming the lid to his laptop.

“Octavia–” he gasps, scrambling to open it again, “I had twelve pages–”

“Calm down, nerd, I saved it in, like, three different places. You can finish later.”

“I really should just––”

“Get ready for the party?” she says brightly. “I agree. Hurry your ass up!”

Bellamy grumbles under his breath as she herds him into the bathroom and demands he “descruff.”

(He _does_ shave, but only because he didn’t realize how long it had been since he shaved until he looked into the mirror and saw the amount of hair on his face. No wonder his face has been itchy as hell the past week.)

He quickly rinses off (okay, it’s been a while since he’s showered too, he’s been _busy_ , jeez) and dresses in the clothes Octavia pointedly leaves in a pile outside of the bathroom door because it’s easier than arguing.

Octavia drives them to the party. He doesn’t pay much attention to where they’re going, preferring to focus on how much he’d rather be in his own damn apartment.

He pulls out his phone and goes to his text messages, where he looks at the last thing Clarke sent. It was a short message, just a few words about getting together with some of the people in her new town. His fingers hover over the keyboard, but the screen goes dark before he thinks of anything to type, and he slips it back in his pocket.

They pull up in front of a tiny little house in an older neighborhood about ten minutes away from his apartment. As Octavia slams her door shut, he climbs out and stares at the cheerful green paint, bright white door, windows glowing with light. He sees the blue hybrid car parked in the driveway next to a classic red Camaro.

“O?” he asks. “Who the hell lives here?” He knows for damn sure that neither Monty nor Jasper owns the cars in the driveway.

His sister ignores him and heads into the house, so he trails after her, noting Lincoln’s car is already parked along the street with a handful of others. She doesn’t bother knocking, and he steps hesitantly over the threshold with her.

It’s pleasantly cool inside compared to the heat of the summer night, and underneath the scent of the food piled on a table in the kitchen to his right, the air smells like oranges.

Monty and Jasper are busy stuffing their faces with jalapeño popper dip and chocolate chip cookies, but that doesn’t stop them from smiling around full cheeks and grabbing him in hugs when they see him.

“Hey,” he greets them, unable to keep from laughing when they talk over each other, trying to tell him about their classes, a girl named Maya that Jasper’s half in love with, how Monty’s been hanging out a lot at Grounders since break started and Miller always hooks him up with half-priced drinks, isn’t that _sweet_?  

The news about Miller being nice to Monty causes Bellamy to raise his eyebrows (Miller’s never nice to _anyone_ ) but before he can respond–

“Bellamy?”

The sound of her voice is like diving into a pool on the hottest day of the year––cool relief floods his system even as his skin erupts in goosebumps, hyperaware of her.

He turns to see her smiling at him. He can’t help but stare; she’s wearing some kind of white dress that looks like it’s floating when she moves toward him, and she’s barefoot, which makes something in his chest clench when he notices, and her lips are painted that perfect, glossy red again.

“Clarke?” he hears himself say, and he finds himself reaching for her without even deciding to. But she reaches for him too, folds herself into his arms until she presses a cheek to his heart and sighs.

Bellamy doesn’t know how she could have gotten so far under his skin in the little more than a week she was there for spring break, but now that she’s in his arms again he’s incapable of denying it. He never wanted anything or anyone as much as he wanted Clarke, and now she’s here again.

“Well if it isn’t the group texter,” he hears someone say. He and Clarke look up and Raven’s standing there, a highly amused smirk on her face.

Clarke laughs. “That was you?” she asks.

Bellamy looks back and forth between the two women.

“I’m incredibly confused,” he admits. They both laugh, and Monty and Jasper snicker from where they’re watching the show go down, and he sees his sister farther away in the living room, arm intertwined with Lincoln’s as she watches him and Clarke with an indulgent smile.

(He feels like he should be more alarmed about Octavia watching them like that, his arms still around Clarke, but he can’t quite bring himself to care right now.)

“I’m Raven’s new roommate,” Clarke says. “We met when I interviewed for the art teacher position at the high school last month and hit it off.”

“I teach shop,” Raven offers. “And my ex-boyfriend had just turned out to be a cheating piece of trash, so I kicked him out and needed a roommate for rent money.”

“And when I got the job, it all just...worked out,” Clarke concludes. “I moved in last week.”

“And now you’re here,” Bellamy says. “To clarify.”

“To clarify?” she says. “Yeah. I’m here. I’m here for good.”

* * *

Bellamy keeps close to Clarke’s side for the rest of the evening, meeting the different faculty members she’ll be working with and greeting the various people he already knows. It’s an eclectic mix of people that showed up to the strange little housewarming, but he likes everyone he meets, and Clarke is radiating joy.

When he comments on it, she loops her arm through his.

“I’ve found my place,” is all she says, but he thinks he understands.

They eat and drink and dance in the _tiny_ living room (everything about the house is tiny, he says to Clarke, including her, and that remark earns him a smack on the arm) until late at night. People slowly start to file out of the house until even his sister announces she’s going to head out.

“Bell,” she calls to him. “I’m going with Lincoln.”

She hands her keys to him and tells him he can use her car to head home whenever he wants, but she’ll be spending the night with her boyfriend.

“Good to see you, man,” he tells Lincoln. “You guys have a good night.”

“Meet you at your car, babe?” Octavia says to Lincoln, who nods before giving Clarke a quick hug and slipping out the door. Clarke and Raven are puttering around the house, chatting and cleaning up the detritus from the party.

“What’s up, O?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.

His sister ignores his poor attempt at nonchalance and steps forward to straighten his collar.

“A few things, just so we’re clear,” she says. “One: you’re a great brother. Two: you’re a _huge_ idiot, and three, you and Clarke are both _terrible_ at hiding things from me. I could tell you wanted her bod, like, the second you met her, loser. Four: don’t ever use my happiness as an excuse to not go after yours. It’s lame, and it’s sad, and it makes me responsible for the unhappiness of two of my favorite people.

“Which brings me to five,” she says, and her grasp on his collar tightens a little. “If you fuck this up with her, I will fuck _you_ up.”

“Understood,” he says, trying and failing to loosen the fabric around his neck.

“The same goes for Clarke,” Octavia adds. “But even if you two implode, you’ll still be my brother, and she’ll still be my best friend. So. Go for it, Bell.”

“You sure?” he asks, though he’s not sure what he would do if she says she changed her mind. At this point, it seems like Clarke’s in his system. In the time they spent together during her spring break and in the texts since, she’s somehow become vital to him. He did a pretty piss-poor job of keeping himself together when he realized––thought––he wouldn’t be seeing her again.

Octavia slaps him on the arm so hard it actually stings a little.

“I’m goddamned sure,” she says, then kisses him on the cheek. “Night, Bell.”

“Night, O,” he says.

When his sister is gone, he flips the lock and draws the the chain. Raven takes one look at him when he joins her and Clarke in the kitchen and announces that she’s beat, and heading to bed.

“Just don’t scream,” she tells Clarke. “We’re on opposite sides of the house, but it’s still a small fucking house.”

Clarke flushes and sticks her tongue out at the other woman. “Bite me,” she says.

“That’s his job, not mine!” Raven calls as she retreats down the little hallway to her room.

“Do you…do you want to stay?” Clarke asks quietly when they’re alone, intertwining a hand with his.

“Yes,” he says. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” she says. Then she smiles. “My bed is brand new.”

“Need help breaking it in?” he asks, catching her drift.

“Definitely.”

So he stays. After all, it’s only polite to offer his assistance.

(And Clarke goes crazy for his tattoo.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving all of your comments! You guys are the best. Just the epilogue to go now. :)
> 
> Edit: I've gotten a couple questions about the tattoo. I know it's an all-black piece, but other than that I decided to leave it up to you guys. But if you really want to know, in my mind, because Bellamy is a huge nerd, it's an intricate set of clock gears, to symbolize time/history/etc. :) Think something like this, but with the color inverted: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/bb/05/da/bb05dafc49e1c1a0238b1cef261ff0ef.jpg


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy Blake spends the rest of his life not getting over Clarke Griffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a couple of questions about Bellamy's tattoo-–if you read chapter five before I posted an edit with an answer about it, feel free to hop back a chapter and check. Enjoy the epilogue!

It’s all surprisingly easy, this thing between them. Even when it’s hard, and Clarke gets so mad at Bellamy she’s nearly letting off sparks, or Bellamy’s so pissed at her he can’t see straight, it’s always easier to accept an apology or to give one than he expects. And he honestly can’t complain about the way they fuck when they’re mad, or the way they make love when they forgive each other.

(He can complain about her cold-ass feet in bed, though. Seriously, they’re like fucking blocks of ice.)

* * *

When she wakes up way,  _way_ too early the morning before her first day teaching, he’s there to talk her down when she nearly hyperventilates. He fixes her coffee the way she likes it, and once she drinks the whole thing and has finally stopped panicking, he bundles her back under the covers where it’s warm.

“You need to relax,” he orders her. “You don’t want to start your day off tense.”

She scoffs at the word _relax_. “How?”

He ducks under the blankets, slips off her panties, and shows her how with his mouth.

After, when he kisses her with her own taste still on his tongue, she murmurs her thanks. Then she climbs on top of him and claims it’s only fair that she _relax_ him in return. When she sinks down onto him, he can’t say that he minds.

(He can’t say much at all.)

* * *

She’s there when his application for the museum’s assistant curator position is accepted. It’s better pay than his position in security, so he could stop working at the bar and  _still_ afford a better place, if he wanted. There’s even the potential for promotion later on, when the other curators retire.

Clarke squeals and jumps up, locking her arms around his neck and legs around his waist when he repeats the offer the head curator left him in a voicemail, his voice full of disbelief.

She kisses him until he believes it like he believes in her. The warm weight of her in his arms, the scent of oranges that always seems to cling to her now, the ecstatic blue of her eyes––all of these things tell him that it’s real.

* * *

He’s there on the anniversary of her father’s death, when they go to visit her dad’s grave and her own goddamned mother walks past Clarke as if she doesn’t even see her.

Bellamy honestly can’t see the resemblance between them, and figures Clarke must take almost entirely after Jake Griffin. As far as he can tell, Abigail Griffin is a frosty bitch with a superiority complex and brown hair.

His Clarke is giving and gracious and golden-haired, and he can’t stand the thought of her own mother treating her the way she does.

He wants to make sure she’s treated right for the rest of her life, and that realization feels like a punch to the gut.

The next week he tells her he loves her.

(The best part is when she says she loves him back.)

* * *

She’s there with him, watching as Octavia throws her black cap in the air with a scream of delight, and if he tears up and clutches at Clarke’s hand, well, it’s probably just allergies.

“You’re the first in the family to graduate from college, O,” he tells his sister later, pulling her into a rough hug while Clarke watches with a smile.

“Hey!” she says indignantly. “I’m third in the family, thank you very much! Just because you two didn’t have a ceremony doesn’t mean your graduations don’t count.”

Clarke pinks up a little, but he grins at her over Octavia’s head.

Yeah. He guesses Octavia's right. 

* * *

He’s there, sweaty and exhausted, when they fall into bed at the end of the day.

Well, bed is being polite. Right now the mattress and boxspring are sitting in the middle of the bedroom floor. The upholstered headboard Clarke picked out is leaning up against the wall, waiting to be mounted; the frame is still in pieces on the ground.

When his lease had come up for renewal the summer after Clarke’s second year teaching, and Raven had started getting serious with that scruffy chemistry teacher, they had silently agreed that Bellamy would finally start looking for a new place, and Clarke would look with him.

He knew which house was the one when he saw the way her face lit up at the little fireplace in the living room, at the big bay windows in the study, at the poppies blooming wild in the backyard. The hardwood floors and extra rooms were just a bonus, and with his recent promotion he could easily afford it, he had said later that day, talking over the house with Clarke at a café downtown.

She had arched an eyebrow at him as she set down her iced tea.

“Imagine how easily _we_ could afford it,” she said, and he practically lunged across the table to kiss her smiling lips, and that was that.

Now they’re all moved in, and he’s grimy and his t-shirt is soaked with sweat, and he knows Clarke’s not much better, but when he turns his head to look at her, she’s just looking at him and beaming.

He finds himself grinning back at her, and he reaches out to lace his fingers with hers.

“Welcome home,” she tells him.

“Back at you,” he replies, and tugs her closer to him.

“Ugh, we smell,” she says, wrinkling her nose but settling against him anyway.

“Could be a good time to break in the shower,” he muses. A second later they’re scrambling off the bed and shedding a trail of clothes to the bathroom.

(Turns out the new shower is great. A lot quieter than the one in the old apartment, but the built-in bench comes in handy more than once, and the tile’s just as good for hoisting Clarke against so he can fuck her until her toes curl.)

* * *

She’s there, on the other side of the bathroom door, when he bangs on it with his fist and begs her to tell him what’s wrong, to let him come in.

Eventually the lock clicks open and he bursts into the bathroom. She’s sitting on top of the toilet seat lid, and though she offers him a trembly smile, her eyes are puffy. Bellamy drops to his knees in front of her, his hands gripping her thighs.

“Clarke?” he says, searching the rest of her body with his eyes. “Clarke, what’s wrong?”

She lets out a watery laugh and a sniff, so he snatches a length of toilet paper and hands it to her. Clarke blows her nose noisily, then tosses the paper into the trash. Her hands move to grip his and he laces their fingers together tightly, palm to palm.

“If I were a doctor, like my mother wanted, I would have figured it out sooner,” she says, and his brow furrows.

What?

“A doctor would have remembered the effect antibiotics can have,” she adds, and bites her bottom lip as she looks at him.

“On what?” he asks slowly. He notices the way her throat moves as she swallows nervously.

“On birth control,” she whispers.

On _birth––_

Bellamy knows his eyes are wide and his mouth is open when he glances between Clarke’s face and midsection, but he can’t quite bring himself to give a damn.

“Clarke…?” he asks hesitantly. He reaches up to coax her lip out from her teeth, then leaves his hand on her face. She leans into his palm when he strokes his thumb over her cheek.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, closing her eyes. “Probably a couple of months gone already.”

His hand slides back into her hair and he pulls her down into a fierce kiss. She gasps into his mouth, but he doesn’t care––he keeps kissing her until she’s kissing him just as passionately, until he’s _sure_ she must feel the joy he’s trying to express.

“You’re sure?” he asks when he finally pulls back. Clarke gestures at the trash can. He peeks in and sees three pregnancy tests in the bottom, little pink pluses clearly visible on each of them.

“Three hundred percent sure,” she says.

Bellamy glances down at her flat belly. Slowly, to let her stop him if she for some reason wants to, he slides his hand up her thigh and under her shirt until it’s pressing lightly against her skin.

“This good?” he asks, looking up at her face. Clarke’s watching his hand rest above her womb, and he has to use his free hand to tug her lip out of her teeth again, but then she nods. A tear hits the hand still touching her cheek, but the smile she sends him is luminous.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding again. “It’s good. This is good.”

It’s more than good––it’s fantastic, it’s _wonderful_ , and Clarke’s _perfect_ and he’s incandescently happy, which he demonstrates to her as thoroughly as possible once he’s carried her to their bed.

* * *

He’s there, under the flowering arch when she walks down the grassy path toward him, more flowers in her hair and her hands, dressed in white with her lips that perfect red he loves.

She hadn’t taken it too well when he’d suggested they hurry up and marry before the baby comes, but to be fair he hadn’t said it very well.

Bellamy wanted to be with her for the rest of his fucking life, goddamnit, and he’d felt that way for _years_ before blurting out such a shitty proposal. Thankfully, when he told Clarke that, and that he’d marry her after they had five kids already, or if she had never gotten pregnant in the first place, or he would never marry her at all if it meant he still got to live the rest of his life with her––well, then she rolled her eyes, kissed him soundly, and said yes.

Octavia and Lincoln are the only others who know yet, but he knows the gentle curve hidden beneath her gauzy skirt like the back of his own hand. Once they've said  _I do_ , and Clarke leans against him as she stands on her tiptoes for their kiss, he lets one hand slip hidden between them to caress the swell. The other goes to her jaw to cradle her face in his palm, and when he kisses her, he feels her smile against his own.

* * *

He’s there by her side, and she’s there by his, for his little sister’s marriage, for his twin niece and nephew, for his and Clarke’s next two babies, for the puppy that drives them both fucking insane but the kids love. They’re by each other’s sides for the rest of their lives. And it’s good.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
> (That was so fluffy. I had to. It's a weakness.)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this fic. I actually got really nervous all of a sudden when I went to post the epilogue––you've offered such amazing feedback that I was concerned the epilogue wouldn't measure up to the rest of the fic. Hopefully the story of the rest of their lives made you all happy! All of your comments and kudos brighten my day, and make me that much more inspired to keep writing Bellarke. :)


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